Immortal Evil Trilogy Part 1: Back From The Dead
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: Part 1 John Watson had known Jim Moriarty all his life. They were inseparable. But he presumed his friend dead after he saw him shot in Afghanistan. So you can imagine his surprise when he sees Jim at the pool...Surely he is not back from the dead?
1. King of the Playground

**Hello reader! Yes, I know what you're thinking, I should be updating my other stories, but I couldn't resist writing this. No specific pairings, unless anyone wants some John and Jim? **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Sherlock world and make no profits whatsoever from writing this, purely for fun.**

**Please enjoy, and give your opinion at the end in the form of a review so I know someone out there actually reads my rubbish stories! Please review and enjoy!**

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**Back From The Dead**

or

**An Unlikely Friendship**

**by **

**Blackcurrant Bonbons**

John Watson had known Jim Moriarty all his life.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. One, a consulting criminal. The other, the loyal companion of the world's only consulting detective. From your perspective, it must appear a friendship doomed from the beginning.

But Jim Moriarty was not always the chuckling psychopath in the Westwood suit we know today.

And John Watson was not always the quiet, resolute ex soldier we are so fond of.

No.

It was a friendship from birth. Born in the same hospital, in fact. The same ward.

But the pair was not destined to meet until their tender play school years. The first moment their eyes met, that their hands touched, was in the most unlikely of places. The sand pit.

Jim initiated the tentative friendship. Funny, you wouldn't guess that now. But no, it was Jim.

John was a shy little boy, he didn't go looking for fights, and passively let the other tykes snatch grubby toys from his pliant fingers. He inevitably became a popular target for the ruffians that were in the first stages of the high school bullies they would later become.

Jim was not an openly violent boy, but neither would he let others manipulate him. He soon became the both feared and revered 'King of the Playground'- as the others called him - through his smiling ways, which only hid the sinister little flicker of flame underneath the surface. You could perhaps say it was a foreshadowing of what was to come.

But for now, at least, the lion would remain dormant.

But despite his sinister demeanour, Jim was a troubled little boy. His parents were in the middle of a messy divorce, and the only satisfaction his dad got was the bottom of an empty bottle. And not the water type, either.

So when Jim saw John being tormented from across the playground, he had to do something about it.

He was pleased to later report that the ruffians never again laid a finger on John.

Well, John being the sensitive soul he is, did not miss this little act of kindness. (If threats could be called that) After many nervous days of chewing on the skin of his little left finger – which would become a fixed habit in later life – John tentatively approached Jim, who was sat regally on his omnipresent throne of the almighty swing , with a slightly flat ball cradled in his arms.

"You wanna play?" John held the ball out, like an offering to the gods. Jim smiled.

"Sure!"

And so it began.

The friendship continued throughout primary school, then through to secondary school.

Ever since that fateful moment in the playground, John had hero worshipped Jim.

Not, it's not what you think. Jim _did not _use John for his own selfish purposes.

In fact, it could be said that the hero worship was returned more than equally by Jim.

As life grew ever tougher for Jim at home, he relied more and more on John for the emotional support that John was more than willing to supply.

John was the only person in the world who had seen with his own eyes the awful sight of Jim crying.

But you must not been mistaken in thinking that it was a shallow relationship as mere hero worship. No, it was much deeper than that.

The term 'bromance' is thrown around so carelessly in this day and age, but never was there a more appropriate word to describe the pair. No, they were not gay. But it was a needle point, a mere needle point.

Neither did their friendship grow apart or drift as they grew older, entering the teenage years. If anything, it grew stronger.

They did everything together. But while both aspired to join the army, John favoured a more gentle profession than needless shooting, and he had his mind on medicine. He wanted to help people. To save people, just as Jim had saved him, all those years ago. Army doctor, he later decided, fitted his desires perfectly well.

Jim however, had a slightly more violent tendency. Don't be mistaken into thinking he was aggressive, but the imprint of his childhood was still retained somewhere in his rather large mind.

If there was one thing that Jim excelled at more than John, it was his sheer amount of pure _intelligence_. John was clever, but Jim...

It was the view of many teachers, adults and experts alike that Jim's massive IQ was not natural, that it was abnormal.

But it only gave John more reason to love his friend more, and not even a grain of jealously found refuge in the eye that was his pure heart.

So it was a surprise to many then, when Jim decided to join the army.

'_What a waste' _was the recurring thought passing through everyone's minds, but of course they never said that to his face.

And despite many well meaning words to dissuade him from his path, Jim stayed strong. And John was beside him, supporting him the whole way.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't the perfect friendship, there's no such thing. Of course they had their occasional argument and disagreements, but they always reconciled soon afterwards.

Life in the army, John Watson soon discovered, was to be the most joyous and saddening time of his life.

Life was good. Well, as good as it could get in Afghanistan. John and Jim were by some fated miracle kept in the same regiment, and both giddy with the naive boyish glee that always filled their souls when they embarked on an exciting adventure in an unknown land.

Except this land had guns.

Everything went fine, for a little while.

Whilst men dropped like flies on all sides of the sandy battle field, John and Jim remained stoically together, each watching the others back.

But all is not fair in love and war, contrary to popular belief, and soon the pair was to be torn apart by the meddling hands of fate. But neither would go quietly.

*J*J*J*J*

The mission had been going well, till now. How hard could patrolling the local village be?

Neither realised it was an ambush until too late.

The last John saw of Jim was a bullet tearing through his chest, his limp body being dragged off by the enemy.

The last John saw of himself at that moment was looking down at a bullet hole seeping blood through his uniform, and his shoulder searing with agony, like a boiling rod had been stabbed through his flesh.

The last coherent thought that flashed through his mind was not of him. It was of Jim.

_He's dead._

Even in his unconscious state, the tears still continued to trickle down his grit smothered face, leaving rivers in the sand.

As he awoke in the starchy hospital bed, John bolted up, and let out of an agonizing scream of pain and despair.

The doctors presumed it was from the shock of being shot. No, his only thought was of Jim.

_Jim's dead._

And from that moment, John did not speak of Jim again.

Not to Mrs Hudson.

Not to Harry.

Not even to Sherlock.

*J*J*J*J*J*

So you can imagine the mixed feeling of relief, happiness, shock and disbelief that exploded inside John the night he saw Jim at the pool, Sherlock standing only a few feet away. The heavy weight of the bomb jacket disappeared as he took in the familiar figure of Jim.

_But that's not possible. Jim's dead. _

And Jim seemed to be thinking exactly the same thing about him.

**_To be continued._**


	2. King of the Underworld

No. Jim Moriarty was not back from the dead.

So what happened in Afghanistan, you might ask?

The bullet in his chest did not kill him.

Now Jim was a resourceful man. Quite willing to manipulate if it would save his skin. But he was a good man, inside.

But Jim had seen John shot, and he thought John was dead.

Something snapped inside him that day.

And he has mourned John ever since.

The grief blinded him. You could almost say it drove him to the edge of insanity. Hence the cackling psychopath we all know and detest.

Jim would avenge John, if it cost him his life.

So the enemy offered him a deal.

Nothing big, just a rooky position in the drugs underworld.

Yes, that's where his path to consulting criminal began.

Soon all Jim's rivals were dead, killed in mysterious 'accidents'. He rose in status, and all came to fear him, just as they had all those years ago in the playground.

'The King of the Underworld' he soon became.

But what happened to John?

Well I think you know that story.

Returned home from Afghanistan, he battled everyday to return, to avenge the death of Jim.

But the wound in his shoulder would not allow it, and he hated it.

But he could make a difference in a small way, by helping Sherlock catch the petty criminals of London and beyond.

That John was fighting the very thing Jim had become was the most ironic tragedy the world had ever known.

*J*J*J*J*

As John returned from a visit to the toilet in Barts, he saw Sherlock hovering over his microscope.

The lab door was swinging, as if someone had just left.

"Who was that?"

"Oh, no one. Just Molly's new boyfriend. Jim, I think. Obviously gay."

John's heart fluctuated for a moment as the lilting word 'Jim' filled his heart, but it sank as he came to the realization that there were millions of Jim on the planet, and the only one he had cared for was dead.

So he dismissed the thought and let life drag him onwards.

*J*J*J*J*J*J*

As Jim flicked over the CCTV of Baker Street, he grinned manically as he picked out Sherlock's tall figure darting along the street.

He loved the little game they were playing, it was the most exciting entertainment he'd had in _ages._

But Sherlock was starting to get annoying. The man was simply too persistent.

He would just have to dispose of him.

A great shame, really.

But he had to finish the game.

That's why he was delighted when Sherlock arranged to meet him at the pool midnight.

He just needed a fifth pip.

He was about to flick the off switch of the TV when he saw another short, muscled figure step out from 221b.

He couldn't see his face, but for a moment an image of John flashed in his mind.

_No._ John was dead.

_I have the fifth pip. _

*J*J*J*J*J*J*J*

John groaned as his heavy eyes opened to a world of darkness. His hot, heavy breath filled the black, itchy bag that had been tied over his head. It itched against his nose, but his hands were tied behind his back in way in which if he tried to move them his arms would break.

The wound in his shoulder was playing up, and the sharp rod of pain seared through his mind.

_Kidnapped._

Well what did he expect; he was living with Sherlock, for crying out loud!

The sharp smell of chlorine permeated the air, and the gentle slapping of water filtered through the bag.

_Swimming pool._

His mind snapped to attention as a voice filled his head, and the little listening device sat heavy in his ear.

"Now, John, I want you to do everything I say."

The cold voice sent a shiver down his spine, but it stirred something inside him, and a whisper of familiarity made his bones ache.

J*J*J*J*J*J*J*

As a boy, Jim had been quite the little theatrical. Hence the black bag over John's face.

_John._

He loved that name so much, if only for the dead man he was still mourning.

Excitement and suspense filled him. He just couldn't wait to see the man's face.

_He must be pretty special if he's this close to Sherlock._

"Now John, one of my men is going to lead you out, and then you are going to stand very still. Then you say hello to our dear little Sherlock."

John felt the bag being ripped off his head, and blistering light burned his eyes. Blinking away the whiteness, John had no time to recover as he was dragged along by a rough hand. He almost tripped over one time with no arms to balance him.

The smell of chlorine grew stronger.

Suddenly the hand let go, and he came to a sudden stop.

"Now, John. I want you to take a few steps out until you're by the swimming pool, and then turn around. Remember, not a word unless I tell you to. Now go on!"

John stepped out, and he realised then the heavy weight that had been hanging on his chest. His throat clogged up in fear as he realised he was wearing a jacket. A _bomb_ jacket.

That voice must belong to a person of pure evil or someone really, really sick in the head.

And sure enough, there was Sherlock.

As the cold, silky voice filled his mind, the words slipped out of his mouth. He hardly knew what he was saying. Sherlock just stared at him blankly, grey eyes filled with worry.

He felt a presence behind him. Sherlock's gaze shifted to the mysterious figure in the distance.

John _had_ to know who he was.

If it killed him.

So, slowly he turned around.

And he reeled in shock and disbelief.

"Jim!" He yelled.

*J*J*J*J*J*

As Jim stepped out from behind the corner, he immediately took in the tall figure of Sherlock standing there, and the mysterious John, back facing him.

He had to see his face.

He was about to tell him to do just that, but John appeared to be doing the job for him.

And then his whole world stopped.

_It was John. John Watson._

_He was alive!_

"John!" He yelled.

*J*J*J*J*J*J*

A mixture of disbelief and joy filled John. For a moment he couldn't believe it. The fear must be making him hallucinate.

But there was the Jim Moriarty he had known and loved, standing only a few feet away from him.

He had to be sure.

It hadn't even occurred to him that Jim was the psychopath that Sherlock had been chasing all along.

The only thing that mattered now was that Jim was alive.

Suddenly, he saw Jim walking towards him, a huge, genuine smile on his face. Not caring for the bomb jacket on his chest, he started to walk towards to Jim, and as he become more certain of his identity, he started to jog, then run. Jim did the same.

The slammed together in a fierce hug and John wrapped his arms fiercely around Jim, letting go all of the sorrow, grief and anger that had filled him ever since Jim's 'death'. Jim returned the hug in equal measure, and John felt hot tears prick his eyes.

"Jim." He whispered hoarsely.

"John." John could barely hear the word out of Jim's mouth.

And then Jim started to cry uncontrollably.

John smelt like home.

And Jim hadn't had a home in over two years.

And now he was home. The relief was almost unbearable.

He thought of all the terrible deeds he had done, all in the name of vengeance. He had even kidnapped John.

Would he ever forgive him?

The crack in his persona which had drove to the edge of insanity and back filled in an instant, basking in the glow of John's presence.

John patted his back, whispering soothing nonsense.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Jim stepped back, and John clasped his shoulders, smiling.

"How are you still alive?"

J*J*J*J*J*J*J*

Well you can imagine what poor Sherlock must be feeling now.

Firstly, there was the shock and worry that filled him when he saw John emerge from the changing rooms, bomb jacket in tow.

_Of course, how could he be such an idiot? Of course John was the fifth pip!_

Sherlock could have hit himself. He would, in fact, several times afterwards.

And then there was the additional trauma of witnessing John – his John – turning around to Moriarty and hugging him – _hugging him_, his mind echoed.

_Oh god. _John had betrayed him.

_Stupid, Sherlock!_ People never made friends with and stayed unless they had an ulterior motive.

_Stupid, stupid mistake._

Then his rational mind slowed down.

_Think Sherlock, think. There must be a rational explanation for all of this._

_Betrayed_ echoed in his mind.

"John! Would you like explain to me what the hell is going on here!"

John turned around.


	3. King of Your Heart

**Hello reader! A mon avis, I don't think that my writing style for this story is very good. What I mean, is that I do not think that the flow of the story is very smooth, when reading over it, I find it slightly jarring. I need your opinions.**

**NOW IT'S TIME FOR YOUR DECISION!**

**Would you rather the eventual pairing be:**

**SHERLOCK/JOHN**

**or**

**MORIARTY/JOHN**

**In which case, if you decide Sherlock/John, Moriarty will eventually turn out evil, but if you decide Moriarty/John, Moriarty will be good, but it will be a devastatingly sad ending, trust me.**

**I NEED YOUR OPINIONS!**

**Either send them to me in a review or message! Thank you!**

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"Sherlock! This is Jim. Jim, this is Sherlock. I've known Jim ever since I was born, and we grew up together. We both served in the same regiment in the Army, but I saw him being shot with my own eyes. Up until a few seconds ago I thought he was dead. He's my 'dead' best friend, basically."

As Sherlock listened to John's innocent tale, the suspicion in his mind gradually began to retreat. He obviously had no idea that 'Jim' – as John so lovingly called him – was responsible for more most of the criminal activity in London, and had been responsible for all the deaths of the innocent people – or _pips_, as Sherlock preferred.

But what was he supposed to say to him?

He was in quite a precarious little predicament.

What if both John and Moriarty were in fact, lying?

Or Jim was an extremely good actor and all of his supposed 'emotion' was a trick to deceive them both?

Well Sherlock would just have to risk telling John who _exactly_ this_ Jim_ was, damn the snipers.

Jim couldn't shoot him anyway, John would never forgive him.

"John? You do realize what this man has done, don't you?"

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" A look of genuine befuddlement crinkled John's face. He turned around to face him.

"He is the very Moriarty which I have been playing the 'game' with. He is responsible for most of the criminal activity in London, and is personally responsible for all the deaths of the 4 pips, nearly including you. The crimes he has committed and murders he has order are on an unimaginable scale. He is the world's only consulting criminal, and my intellectual equal."

John stared at Sherlock, then Jim, then Sherlock, then Jim.

Sherlock was becoming bored of the eye tennis.

"That's not true, right, Jim? Please tell me Sherlock's lying?"

John turned around to face Jim.

And much to Sherlock's apparent surprise, Jim fell down on his knees, and started to cry.

"No John, everything he said – it's true. I've done so many terrible things. Committed so many unimaginable crimes. And I felt nothing. I know you can never forgive me. I'm so, so sorry."

No, this was not an act, if that's what you're thinking.

John's expression went from angry, to betrayed, to blank, then calm.

_Looking at John's face_, Sherlock thought rather abstractly, _is like reading a book._

"Hey, Jim, it's all right. C'mon, stand up, your suit looks too expensive to be kneeling in chlorine. C'mon." John offered Jim his hand, and after wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, he grabbed it, and heaved himself of the floor.

Sherlock stood mouth slightly agape. Surely John wasn't, _forgiving_ him?

This was not the John Watson he knew.

He re focused as he heard John's voice.

"Now I'm sure there's some rational explanation to this. But I think we can discuss things more calmly once we have those damn snipers off us. I take it they follow your orders, right?"

Jim nodded almost imperceptibly. He raised his head in a slight flicking motion, as if to signal to an unknown figure. Sherlock tensed.

But to his relief the red light that had been blazing into his chest disappeared, and he let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief.

"And as I presume I'm not a hostage anymore, can I take off the jacket?"

Jim nodded again.

"Good. Now Jim, I want you to tell me everything."  
And so Jim did. Starting from his 'death' in Afghanistan, till almost that very second. John remained very still throughout.

Sherlock, for once, refrained from snorting.

But he didn't believe any of the nonsense Moriarty was spouting for an instant.

The fake sentimentality of the man made him physically sick.

He wanted to scream at John, to convince him that Jim was a liar.

But for every second Jim remained talking, the more John's eyes glazed over with belief.

Sherlock's tongue caught in his throat, and his now treacly saliva sandwiched his heavy jaw to his sticky lip.

_John, for once in your life, don't be an idiot!_

Despite what Sherlock said – or rather, thought – John was not an idiot. He had thoughts racing through his mind.

You could perhaps compare to a swan, calm on the surface, but underneath, kicking to survive.

But unlike Sherlock, the thought of Jim lying was unimaginable, and had not even crossed his mind.

The thought of Jim perhaps having gone slightly insane _had _passed his mind.

And John wanted to help him, like the doctor he was.

But if Jim had done what he said he had, he obviously would have enemies, police and criminals alike.

And knowing Mycroft, he was probably on his tail at this exact moment.

He had to get Jim out of this mess he had created for himself.

If there was one thing he owed him, it was that.

_But what about Sherlock? _He looked over of his flatmate, who was standing with a slightly bored expression on his face. But John knew better than that. Sherlock would anything but bored right now.

He was torn between staying with Sherlock, and helping his possibly insane best friend.

Who needed him the most now?

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

"I need to help Jim."

Sherlock's mind reeled at John's word. He blinked several times in shock.

"John... what are you thinking?"

"I have to help him Sherlock. He's my best friend."

Sherlock's mouth opened several times, and he felt discomfortingly like a goldfish. What was John saying? That he would help an insane mass murderer, who had tortured and killed innocents?

"John." The world came out in a strangled whisper.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Don't go."

The look Sherlock gave John then almost broke his heart.

How could he ever leave him?

"I have to Sherlock."

Sherlock straightened. "Then you leave me no choice John. Go with him, and I will hunt you down, if it kills me. When I eventually track you down, I won't discriminate. You will both be arrested and sentenced. You will be entirely on your own. Do you understand?"

John nodded stiffly.

"I guess this is goodbye then."

Sherlock did not reply.

"C'mon Jim, let's go."

And they were gone, like a wisp on the breeze.

Sherlock remained standing, words and sentences building on his tongue like a tsunami. He wanted to scream after John, to drag him back, but it was as if dead weights were tied to his ankles, and so he remained standing.

Finally his mouth could contain the tumultuous wave no longer, and it was released in a cataclysmic yell. He fell to his knees, smashing his fists into the glistening white tiles of the swimming pool floor until his knuckles were bloody.

His head sunk, and he did not register the figure standing over him until a few seconds had gone by.

He looked up to the broad frame of Mycroft.

"What happened?"


	4. King of Your Demise

**Hello reader! The overall majority voted for Sherlock/John, so that's the way it's going to end! FYI, I'm not a car expert. You''' get what I mean when you read it! Anyway, please leave a review at the end, even if it's just a smiley face, they always make me dance! Major thank you to all who have reviewed so far, I love you! Enjoy!**

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"John. John left with Jim."

Sherlock's revelation did not seem to shock Mycroft in the slightest, although the slight quaver when he next spoke indicated his tumultuous mental state.

"You mean to say Jim Moriarty?"

Sherlock sent him a withering look and Mycroft chuckled emotionlessly.

"Jim Moriarty is a psychopath. In all likelihood he is going to kill John."

"But Jim was John's best friend. They knew each other Afghanistan."

"Jim is mad. He went completely mad. He knows no boundaries. He will kill anyone he sees as an obstacle. John is one of them."

"John!"

"There's no time to lose Sherlock. We must move quickly. I have a car waiting outside."

Sherlock sprang up, ignoring the steady trail of red running down his bloody fists.

Mycroft moved with a pace Sherlock never knew the broad man possessed.

Even if he denied it, Sherlock knew Mycroft cared for John almost as much as he did.

And Sherlock cared for John, a lot.

* * *

"Uh Jim?" John hesitated.

"Yes John?" Jim looked up at his as they jogged towards what John could only presume to be the car park.

"Do you have a car?"

Jim sent John an almost withering look.

"Good, because we're probably going to need it!" John chuckled, panting.

As they burst out the exit door, Jim pulled a pair of car keys from his pocket, and hurried towards an expensive looking Lamborghini. John almost stopped in his tracks.

"Wow." John stated, mouth gaping like a fish.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jim chuckled.

"C'mon, let's get moving, I'll admire later. You want to drive?" John looked questioningly at Jim.

"I think you're the better driver. Remember the tank incident? Never again!" They both laughed, far away memories filling their minds.

"Well if you insist." John almost licked his lips in anticipation. Despite their predicament, he couldn't wait to drive this beautiful...specimen. He hadn't driven a car in ages; there hadn't been any need, what with all the taxis London had to offer.

Sliding into the plush leather seat, John put the keys in the ignition and the engine burst out in a loud purr. Sliding out of the car park, John and Jim slipped into the dark.

Now came the awkwardness. John would have to confront Jim about... everything that had happened. But the moment just didn't feel right. So instead he let the darkness slip past him like opaque water, and he focused solely on the accelerator pedal, pushing it down further and further, damn the speed limits. He just needed to get away from here.

* * *

Only seconds after John and Jim had left, Sherlock and Mycroft stepped out from the exit door, not breaking their pace. Both were far too dignified to sprint, but it was coming very close to that. Sherlock was chomping at the bit, but Mycroft was already red in the face from the exertion.

Sherlock refrained from making any snide comments about the 'diet'.

Mycroft stopped beside an impressive looking Ferrari, but Sherlock – unlike John – barely gave it a second glance. It was a mere instrument to get him to John.

Sherlock halted Mycroft as he was about to step into the driver's seat.

"Mycroft, if you driving is a slow as your jog, John's doomed."

"Sherlock, you failed your driving test. Twice."

"Well it can't be that hard, can it? Either way, I'm driving."

Reluctantly, Mycroft stepped aside, and Sherlock smugly stepped in, pressing down on the accelerator before Mycroft had had a chance to step in.

Sherlock refrained the smug chuckle that was about to escape his lips as he looked back on Mycroft, who's figure grew further and further away as Sherlock drove off, a goldfish like expression on his face. No doubt this would be used against him on their next dreaded visit to Mummy.

But then his face grew deadly serious as his thoughts returned to John. His foot smashed down on the accelerator, and the car groaned in indignation.

Moriarty wouldn't know what hit him. Literally.

* * *

John sucked in a few deep breaths, and began to speak. "Jim, I think we need to talk."

Silence.

"Jim?"

Silence.

John turned to look at Jim.

And came face to face with a gun. Which Jim was holding.

"Jim, what the hell are you doing?" John was about to slam down on the brakes, when Jim's smooth voice filled the air.

"Keep driving, unless you want to die."

"What do you mean?"John remained very still, focusing on the road.

"Well, I have a gun, so I'll shoot you."

"Jim, what the fuck are you thinking?"

"Don't call me Jim. It's Moriarty to you. So tell me, what have you done with John?"

"What do you mean Jim, I am John!"

"I said, _don't call me Jim_!" Jim yelled, spittle flying in John's face. "Now, what have you done with John?" The switch from utter rage to calm unnerved John. Sherlock was right. Maybe Jim was a psychopath.

"I told you, I am John. What are you talking about?"

"Liar. You're impersonating him. I saw John Watson die."

"You saw me shot. I didn't die."

"I know John died."

"I didn't die."

"Well then, you give me no choice but to kill you, and I'll make your death even more torturous."

"You have to believe me Jim, I'm John!"

Suddenly, a loud revving filled the air.

Jim sighed dramatically. "Sherlock. I guess your death will just have to wait a moment while I deal with him."

_Sherlock_. John twisted his head ever so slightly, and sure enough, in the car behind, he saw the familiar face of Sherlock, staring at him intently.

If Jim's gun wasn't on him, he could stop the car. But then Jim's gun would be back on him, and it would be goodbye to John Watson.

No. What if he could spin the car around? Sherlock's car would smash into his side, seriously injuring himself and Jim. As much as it hurt him to contemplate killing his best friend, he knew Jim wasn't in his right mind, and probably never would be. And if he had killed as many Sherlock said he had, well then he had no right to continue living.

It nearly broke him.

And then there was the problem that Sherlock was in one of the car's. The collision would no doubt seriously injure him, even kill him.

And John knew for a fact that Sherlock never wore his seatbelt.

Come to think of it, he wasn't either.

Either way, there was a high likelihood all three of them would die.

And he would not let Jim take a shot at Sherlock.

_Oh, damn it all to hell._

And with that, John violently twisted the wheel, tyres screeching against the tarmac.

A few seconds later, Sherlock's car collided with the side of John's, sending his whole world into blackness.

Funnily enough, as John surrendered himself to the abyss of pain, his thoughts were not on himself, Sherlock, or even Jim.

They were on the car.


	5. King of Your Dreams

**Hello reader! Sorry I haven't updated in ages! Apparently CPR doesn't work on your muse. **

**TIME FOR ANOTHER BIG DECISION MADE BY YOU!**

**So I have decided that I may possibly write a sequel to this fic. And here the choices are:**

**If you choose a sequel, Jim will not die (in this story anyway), but there will be an established Sherlock/John relationship. (As you have already voted, and will be 'established' in this chapter.)**

**If you do not choose a sequel, I will write one or two more chapters, and Jim will die in the finale.**

**So there are your choices. In my opinion, I would love to write a sequel, I would like to develop this story a little more.**

**Please send me your decision in either a review or a PM! If you vote for a sequel, I'll put a 'complete' to this story and start writing the sequel, if not I'll write one more chapter, maybe two.**

**SEQUEL, PLEASE!**

**And I know there injuries might not fit when they've been in a massive car crash, but I love them too much to hurt them badly!**

***Minor SLASH* If you no like, you no read!**

**Enjoy and review!**

* * *

A blinding white light pierced his mind.

John Watson opened his eyes.

He stood – as far as he could tell – in an empty park. The grass beneath him was flat and expansive. The sweltering sun weighed down upon the world, the crisp smell of cut grass filling the heavy air.

It had an air of familiarity that he could not place his finger on.

Slowly, he placed one foot in front of the other, any trace of the former pain departed from his world weary body.

Casting a glance around the park, realisation hit him in the chest. He stood in the park of his childhood, his retreat as a child, the meeting place of the children in his childhood village.

Slowly, he picked up his pace until he was passing around the park at a steady walk, hands trailing over the familiar, rusty metal of the swings, slide and climbing frame, all the while a beam spread from ear to ear as he laughed with childish abandonment.

Eventually, he came to ancient oak tree that had shadowed the park since the beginning of time, and he lovingly traced the carvings that centuries of vandalising children had left, John included. His mind filled with happy, care-free memories of the past.

The sun beat down upon his back, and he crept closer to the tree, basking in the cool shade of the branches. Yawning, John knelt down on the lush grass, back resting against the gnarled trunk.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes shut, and the light faded once more, the last of the golden glow filtering through his eyelashes as he surrendered to eternal sleep.

* * *

_Hospitals are boring. _Sherlock lay musing in the white, bland, boring hospital, tucked up in the white, bland, boring sheets, lying on the white, bland, boring bed, looking down at the white, bland, boring floor.

_Bored. _

It was a shame he couldn't bring his gun to hospital, it would cause quite a stir.

Sherlock let his mind wander. He would call the results of his musings interesting; John preferred 'dangerous.'

_John._

He looked over at the sleeping figure of John – or as Sherlock referred to him, 'Sleeping Beauty'. He had not returned to consciousness since the crash, a worrying three days ago. His tanned, crinkled face looked more serene and peaceful than Sherlock had ever seen, usually his face remained permanently contorted in sleeping, his restless mind haunted by nightmares from the war.

Not that Sherlock ever watched John sleep.

_Ever._

Sherlock allowed a momentary smug grin to spread across his face, celebrating the small prize gained of him and John sharing a room. It had taken a hell of a long time to persuade Mycroft, and even longer for the nurses and doctors.

Whilst musing dangerously, Sherlock had come to the realization that he did in fact have _feelings _towards John. The alien word felt strange on his tongue. Of course he hadn't figured out exactly what kind of feelings they were yet, just that they felt damn good. Being a sociopath, he had the emotional range of tea spoon, and had been quite happy that way, thank you very much. Of course there had been the occasional feelings of disdain towards particularly nasty criminals, the ever present mingled feeling of hatred and disdain towards Mycroft, and the utter feeling of loathing towards Moriarty, which sent a shiver up his spine and made his blood boil simultaneously.

But then there was the question of John.

Feelings, Sherlock found, were like the most obscure, cryptic puzzle -impossible to analyse or pull apart.

But Sherlock _loved_ solving puzzles.

When he had seen Moriarty pointing a gun at John, he'd felt an instinctive need to protect John, to knock the gun out of Moriarty's hands, and to hold John and never let him go.

Sherlock had always been selfish as a child.

Next, his stomach had churned and tightened with worry and fear as Moriarty tightened his hold on the gun. _What if he had been too late? What if John had died? _His mind spun with the vast possibilities, and the nausea sickened him.

Then there had been hazy relief as he vaguely recalled John's seemingly lifeless body out of the wreck of a car, scratched, bleeding and broken, but alive nevertheless. All thoughts of his own wounds had evaporated from his mind as he had slipped into unconsciousness, the cool wave of relief surging through him.

_So what emotion did this create when you put them together?_

Images flashed through Sherlock's mind, pictures of entwined hands, couples walking down the streets of London, brief snatches of passionate kisses down unlit allies glimpsed whilst running down the dark streets of London.

Love?

Sherlock scoffed at the thought, but it was entirely plausible.

He could possibly be in love with John.

Looking over at the sleeping beauty, Sherlock unconsciously changed the 'possibly' to a 'definitely'.

The mere thought was exhilaratingly terrifying.

'_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'. _His father's immortal words entered his mind.

"Love." He spoke aloud, letting the word roll off his tongue. "I love John. I love John Watson. I am in love with John Hamish Watson."  
A startled cough came from John's bed. Sherlock twisted around, startled.

John was staring across at him with wide eyes – and dare he say it – filled with a hint of hope and happiness.

* * *

John awoke from his golden dream, but was disappointed, as all around him was a bland, dull, boring sea of white.

_Hospital. Why was he in hospital?_

As memories of the car crash and the events beforehand returned to him, it all became very clear.

He had survived, by some miraculous power unknown. The pain that had coursed through his veins was numb now, dulled by morphine and painkillers. The monotonous aching of his ribs suggested broken, and despite careful bandaging, his mandatory hospital robe chaffed slightly at his wounds. His head felt woozy, despite the cushioning of the pillows.

But John had survived, and of that much he was grateful.

But what of Sherlock, and Jim?

"I love John. I love John Watson. I am in love with John Hamish Watson."

John coughed, and blinked several times. Elevating his head off the pillows, he turned in surprise to witness Sherlock declaring his love for him – John of all people. A warm glow filled the pit of his stomach at the sight of the man, and he grew giddy with an overwhelming relief.

Had Sherlock seriously just said that?

"Ah, John. I can assure this all a dream. Go back to sleep, and when you wake up everything will be back to normal." If John hadn't known better, he could have sworn Sherlock was trying to hypnotise him.

"Sherlock. This is not a dream."

"Yes it is." Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.

"Sherlock, I heard everything you just said."

Sherlock remained silent, and John swore later that a faint blush crept across Sherlock alabaster cheeks.

"Sherlock, it's nothing to embarrassed about."

"So are the _feelings_ returned?" Sherlock steadfastly refused to look at John, instead choosing to burn a hole in the sheets with his intense glare.

"Of course you idiot!" John chuckled lovingly.

The expression on Sherlock's face was priceless. A mixture of wounded pride and joyous happiness spread across his face, and it made John's heart burst.

_Well what a relief that was._

John wasn't sure for how long he had loved his flatmate, but it was out in the open now, and let Sherlock do with it what he will. The relief that Sherlock returned his feelings was staggering.

"Well that's – good." Sherlock's smooth baritone quavered slightly.

John felt a sudden, intense need to go over and hug Sherlock for all his worth, but in current position he was clearly incapacitated. Sherlock, as if sensing his need, practically jumped out of his bed – ignoring any of his bandaged wounds – sheets flying left, right and centred, swiftly covered the small distance between his and John's bed, and carefully lay down on the edge of John's bed, who moved over to accommodate the lean man.

Sherlock soon made himself comfortable, and carefully placed his arm around John, snuggling his raven curls into the crook of John's neck.

John had never imagined that Sherlock would be this... _touchy-feely_.

And he liked it.

Soon enough the pair was asleep, curled up on the bed, hands entwined.

* * *

John awoke suddenly, pupils quickly expanding in the darkness. The familiar warmth of Sherlock was gone, and he turned to see the man sleeping in his bed, curled in the foetal position.

Turning the look at the foot of the bed, he muffled a yell. A black figure stood there. But before he could cry out, a hand smothered his face, and his nose filled with the smell of chloroform.

And then there was blackness.


End file.
